William Bush's Journal
by Gatorgal
Summary: The events of iMutinyi as seen through the eyes of Renown's newest officer. Usual Disclaimers Apply


_Arrival_

            Something tells me that this is not a happy ship.

            I know, I'm not exactly well known throughout His Majesty's Navy as a man of great perception, but on board HMS Renown it would be hard to miss the signs.

            I have waited all of my career for a chance like this one. Second lieutenant on a ship of the line, serving under a captain – a hero – like James Sawyer. And now that I find myself here I am uneasy. There is a strange sort of atmosphere; almost like a scent on the wind.

            Captain Sawyer is very much as I expected, yet… Perhaps what imagination I possess is working overtime, but there did seem to be a tension as soon as he stepped on board. He was stately and correct in his manner, and addressed me as directly as could be expected toward a subordinate. He seemed content with my answers to his questions, so why do I feel as if I've been found somehow lacking?

            Mister Buckland, the first lieutenant, is a tall gentleman of over twenty years service to His Majesty. He strikes me as, at best, diffident. At worst he might prove ineffectual and indecisive. There was an almost fearful tone in is his attitude toward the captain. An odd response.

            But in thinking more on it perhaps not. A man like James Sawyer casts a formidable shadow; its bound to get a bit cold standing in it. To be a subordinate to such a leader is not easy for some. Not having experienced such a situation myself can I really judge a man who has? No doubt Mister Buckland is an able administrator and well respected by the junior and warrant officers.

            Speaking of which….

            What can I say about my two immediate juniors? Hornblower (Lord, I pity him that name!) and Kennedy. They've served together for some time, I understand. There's a trust and a bond between them that only comes from shared experience. The sort of bond that makes it difficult to see each surviving without the other.

            And yet they are such different men.

            I would guess that Kennedy comes from an upper class family, for he carries himself and speaks with a confidence and assurance that can only come from money. Perhaps too much assurance, for he seems to value himself above his rank of fourth lieutenant. I had occasion to chastise him for a comment he made with regard to the captain, although thinking back perhaps he wasn't implying what I thought. Its difficult to know, for I also detected in his manner an almost irrepressible sense of humour. The sort of humour that I can appreciate as a fellow man, but must not condone as his superior officer.

            Well, time will tell. He seems to command the loyalty of the men, so he must have the qualities necessary in a good officer. If only he didn't always have that half-smile on his face!

            Hornblower, on the other hand, could use an occasional smile.

            He was the officer on watch when I came on board, amidst the confusion of loading supplies and completing the re-fit to return to sea. Its natural that with so much going on, and him responsible for everything, that he would be a bit abrupt in greeting me. But I never expected to be knocked down on the deck!

            An interesting welcoming ceremony, to be sure.

            True, if he hadn't pushed me down I might have been more seriously injured. As I said to him, nothing damaged but my pride. But what followed was an incident that I hesitate to commit to paper, despite my intention to always be truthful in the pages of this journal.

            Mister Hobbs, the ship's gunner, was serving the watch with Mister Hornblower. He was directly supervising the loading (although not very well to judge by the net of powder casks that nearly beheaded me) and when Hornblower spoke to him after that near miss his response startled me. Oh, his words were perfectly correct – a simple "Aye, aye, sir." - but his tone and manner were as sulky and insolent as a five year old child's would be under similar circumstances. I kept silent, watching to see how young Hornblower would handle the matter.

            Better than I would have when I was his age, certain sure. But there was something in the manner of both men as they confronted each other. Despite his response there was a light of anger that never left Hobbs' eyes, combined with something else I couldn't quite place. Contempt?

            And Hornblower's attitude was equally puzzling. At first I thought he had lost his temper, so fiery was his tone of voice. But as Hobbs walked away I caught Hornblower's eye and was surprised at the sadness I saw there. Perhaps sadness is not the right word, more a melancholy. It was that contrast, between the fire breathing words and the melancholy aspect, that made my next words sharper than they need have been.

            "Perhaps if the men were better supervised these accidents wouldn't happen."

            I deeply regret those words, as well as their implied criticism. Especially in light of the fact that Hornblower had just spared me from serious injury. For I can truly know nothing of what this ship and crew are. Not yet, at any rate.

            But I cannot take them back. I can only hope that I shall have an opportunity in the future to replace them with words of better import.

_Orders_

            I do not understand what just happened.

            I've come out to sit beside the forecastle grating in order to find some peace and privacy. I have long been accustomed to crowded conditions on board ship, but in this case....

            I do not want anyone coming upon me as I ponder what I have just witnessed. I do not want any of the men to see me in such a disturbed state of mind.

            Where to begin?

            Captain Sawyer called all of his senior officers into his day cabin to deliver our orders. I was somewhat shocked to see the ship's surgeon, Doctor Clive, present as well. I can see no sign that the captain is so ill as to require a doctor's attendance. Puzzling.

            But less so than the captain's behavior.

            I see that I am getting ahead of myself. I must set everything down in its proper order if I am to make any sense of these matters.

            We are bound for the West Indies. Santo Domingo, to be exact. I confess to a touch of boyish enthusiasm, in all my years with His Majesty's navy I've never been to the West Indies. Perhaps it was that which led me to abandon my habitual silence in such situations.

            Utter stillness greeted my words; some inane comment about the West Indies being preferable to the Channel Fleet as best I can recall. I could see Hornblower and Kennedy beside me - both held their breaths as if in anticipation of a blow.

            Which never fell. The captain's response to me was perfectly amiable, even jovial. Strange, considering his earlier acerbic response to Hornblower's words about the slave rebellion on the island.

            So how to explain what occurred next?

            I have seen little since my first moments on board this ship to change my original impressions of Mister Buckland. He is deferent almost to the point groveling. And there seems always to be a note of fear in his voice when speaking to the captain. I know that is not simply his way, for in the ward room with his fellow officers he is a perfectly pleasant fellow, with kind words always spoken in his soft voice.

            Which makes Captain Sawyer's actions even more inexplicable. He and Doctor Clive had begun, in an almost jocular fashion, to reminisce about past experiences in tropical waters. I think it was the humourous tone that made Mister Buckland forget himself enough to add to their comments.

            In the blink of an eye the captain rounded on him and, for lack of a better word, attacked him, pointing out that he had never been in the West Indies before. He was harsh, angry, and worst of all extremely condescending. I'll never forget his words:

            "Not a day's sail from Plymouth and you're out of your depth already."

            It was only my shock at hearing a captain speak to his first lieutenant that way that prevented me from speaking when the captain asked me to concur with that outrageous statement. Or maybe it was also self-preservation; I have virtually no doubt that Captain Sawyer would have turned on me just as quickly and easily.

            But why?

            I have encountered many a captain I would consider eccentric, but this goes beyond that. There is something there; an instability of temper that is as sudden as a squall at sea. There is no telling when or where it may strike. The only thing to do, as any good seaman knows, is batten down and ride it out.

            As I left the wardroom Hornblower and Kennedy were seated by the stern windows, talking quietly together. They stopped as soon as they sighted me. I am still an outsider to them, and I can hardly condemn that attitude. I have not yet earned their trust.

            I can see I shall have to tread lightly here.

_Wellard___

            I have suffered my share of injustice at the hands of abusive captains but always the punishment was, at least in some way, merited.

            Young Wellard does not deserve what has been inflicted on him.

            There, I've said it. And in writing; in heavy black ink that no one can dispute.

            At first I thought it was simply a case of the captain not seeing what was obvious to everyone else. He is no longer young, and eyesight does fade as we age. His reaction, even after Hornblower's explanation, was all out of proportion to the situation at hand. A simple matter of a reef point caught in a tackle block. Easy enough; an accident that happens all too often.

            And yet....

            I knew what was going to happen. I've seen the look too many times before. Wellard was about to receive his "first kiss".

            I am sickened by the whole mess. Physically, yet oddly enough sick at heart as well. A most unusual state of affairs. I have never before felt like this. I had suffered beatings as a midshipman, why should others not do the same?

            I had caught a glimpse of Kennedy's face as Captain Sawyer ordered Hornblower and Wellard down from the rigging. Dread, mingled with a certain resignation, was writ clearly across his expressive countenance. That was all I needed to see to understand what was happening.

            But how could I - how could any of us - have prevented it?

            And then for the captain to so easily and calmly ask me to send a hand to clear the tackle! What else could I do? I gave the necessary orders. Yet even as I did Hornblower and Wellard came down to the deck. Captain Sawyer ordered them below, making somewhat strange and unwarranted accusations of conspiracy. I thought for a moment that Hornblower would respond to those outrageous allegations. He held his tongue, however. Seems he has enough prudence to keep his mouth shut when needed. Either that or he knows his captain well.

            I wish I were in as knowledgeable a position.

            I fear I am foundering, however. Over the years I feel I have perfected the art of keeping a blank face when in the presence of superiors; an important skill for any junior officer to have. But I was hard pressed to contain my confusion when the captain addressed the hands.

            "Traitors meet their just deserts and loyal hearts get their rewards."

            Traitors? Is that how he sees his officers? And the hands are the "loyal hearts"?

            Kennedy had approached and was standing beside me while the captain spoke. I could almost feel the anger that radiated off of him. Hopeless, to be sure, but there nonetheless. We are all caught by the system that declares the captain's word to be law.

            And why now, after so many years, am I suddenly questioning that system?

            The men are to be given a day of light duty as their "reward". And...

            "Rum. On the forenoon watch."

            I did not need Kennedy's words to press home to me the lack of good judgment inherent in such an order. Give them an hour, maybe less, and every man and boy in this crew would be drunk.

            When Matthews, the bosun, went below with his mate and the rattan I could stand no more. I walked as far away from the grating as the quarterdeck would allow, fighting to keep the distaste that I felt from showing clearly on my face.

            I think the worst was watching one of the hands - Randall, I believe his name is - take such acute pleasure in watching Wellard's punishment. Even now, hours later, I feel my stomach clench as I remember with what relish he counted off each stroke of the cane. That lack of simple human feeling is, to me, unfathomable.

            And I did not fail to notice Hobbs standing with Randall.

            I am more confused than ever now. It is clear, to me at least, that the captain is not completely sound in his mind. But what can I do about it?

            What can any of us do?

            One thing I am sure of; we cannot simply batten down and ride the squall out. Matters have gone beyond that.

_Discipline_

            Tempers are getting progressively more strained. I frankly do not know what can be done.

            Hornblower is completely exhausted and looks as if a stiff breeze would blow him over. But how else can he be expected to look, given the circumstances? I have tried to remember the last time I actually saw him getting some sleep, but the memory escapes me. It has been far too long, I don't doubt. What kind of discipline is thirty-six hours on watch, and what, exactly, is the lesson to be learned from all of this?

            And Wellard has suffered not just one, but two canings in as many days. I blame myself for the second one; I should have held my tongue when the captain was off on a different scent. But how could I have known he'd be so irrational on the subject of that young man?

            And now to have this happen. A complete breakdown of discipline belowdecks. A brawl in which the bosun's mate was very nearly beaten to death. I have had very little contact with this man, Styles, but he surely did not become a bosun's mate on his good looks. He is reckoned a most able seaman by his comrades and looked to for leadership in many situations. It was Randall and two of his cronies who assaulted him.

            Randall again. A pattern, perhaps?

            And another most inexplicable reaction on the captain's part. I would have at least expected him to consider the case seriously; after all a bosun's mate qualifies as a warrant officer. Which means that Randall did, indeed, strike a superior. And yet he is not to be charged.

            More rewards for "loyal hearts"?

            Hornblower and Kennedy are understandably upset; they have both served with Styles for some time and can be counted as knowing his true worth. It was they, in fact, who broke in on the fight and put a stop to it. Much of what I've heard about the matter is second-hand and therefore of little use.

            One fact of interest that I have heard is that Wellard was present at the time, although why he failed to act is something of a mystery. Kennedy did let one thing slip, however. He thinks that Doctor Clive may have dosed the young man with laudunum after his beatings. If true Wellard can not be depended upon to act in a manner conducive with the good of the ship.

            I sound like a frightful prig, don't I? However, the conclusion is inescapable. I would rather not believe it, but the more time that passes on board this ship the more willing I am to believe almost anything.

            And the latest act of the drama now involves me directly. I am to be punished, along with Lieutenants Buckland, Hornblower and Kennedy. For what? I'm not entirely sure I know. More combustible accusations of conspiracy from Captain Sawyer, and I've been pulled in along with the rest. And for the first time the captain made reference to what must be his greatest dread.

            Mutiny.

            Even the word itself can chill the heart. I have seen captains that lived in mortal fear of the ratings in their crew, but this is the first time I've ever seen one so afraid of his officers. He actively courts the support of the seamen at our expense. He made a vague reference to it on Sunday, placing special emphasis on Article 19. And his statement "This rule applies to my officers as well as to the men.". What are we – any of us – supposed to make of that?

            Hornblower has been sentenced to a further thirty-six hours of continuous watch. On top of that he, Kennedy, and myself are to report to Mister Buckland every hour, day and night, fully and properly dressed. To what end only the captain truly knows. From my point of view the only end possible is exhaustion and further problems. How can we be expected to fulfill our duties under the circumstances? Our inevitable loss of abilities will play directly into the captain's hands, supporting his contention that we are nothing but a passle of "weak-kneed officers".

            Doctor Clive is no help in any of these matters. He and Sawyer are friends and have served together for over fifteen years. There will be no depending on him to do what is right for the good of this ship and the good of the service.

            Perhaps it is time to act.

_Fallen_

            My hand is shaking badly as I write this. I do not think I've really had a chance to absorb everything that has happened this night, but I have to set it on paper. Even if only to clear my thoughts.

            With the speed of an incoming tide events have gone beyond anyone's control. Now all any of us can do is wait.

            I've never been good at waiting.

            How did matters get to this pass? Its almost inconceivable. Doctor Clive believes the captain will survive, but surely that means more problems for the rest of us?

            I see I am doing it again; moving to the end of the story. I must work at controlling that impulse and keep things in order. It is difficult, however. Especially now, when I scarcely know how or why things have come to this pass.

            I had returned to the wardroom after carrying out an inspection of the orlop deck and the surgery on the captain's orders. Doctor Clive was not pleased at my presence, but could make no argument. The whole matter struck me as one of the captain's inexplicable whims, but I didn't argue. Compared to recent events this was thoroughly harmless.

            Finding the wardroom deserted I started to wonder. Hornblower's absence was understandable, but I had at least expected to see Kennedy comfortably installed in his hammock with a volume of Shakespeare to hand. Or Buckland at the table finishing his work. The very silence of the place was deafening, and I had felt a prickle on the back of my neck. I had snatched a lantern from inside the door and made my way to the hold as quickly and quietly as I could.

            Where I found my fellow lieutenants; tense, scared, and not quite trusting me. I took the chance of revealing my thoughts on the captain's fitness for command, suspecting that we were all in full agreement, even if nothing had ever been said.

            We may be in agreement, but there is nothing that can be done. Even meeting and speaking as we did was enough to charge us with mutiny. Charged, and more than likely found guilty. I think Hornblower sees the situation the clearest of all of us. "He's plausible" is what he said of Captain Sawyer.

            And its true. Anything we could possibly say; any evidence we might have of his unsound, even dangerous, behavior, would easily be countered. And who will be believed? A group of lieutenants chafing under the discipline of a hard and unforgiving captain? Not likely. Kennedy was dead on in his assessment of what their reaction would be.

            "They will laugh."

            We'll be broken; careers ended. But that is of no consequence compared to the possibility of attempted murder.

            Because Captain Sawyer has fallen into the hold. Fallen, or was pushed.

            How he found out what we were doing is beyond my ken. But he turned out the marine guard to hunt for us, following with them. Mutineers, Sergeant Whiting reported him saying. We must find the mutineers.

            We split up in the hold; Hornblower and Wellard going one way and Kennedy, Buckland and myself the other. So how did those three young men end up together in that particular spot at that particular time? I know the suspicions I'm harboring are unworthy of me, but the thoughts cannot be avoided.

            They will laugh, and then hang us all in front of the entire squadron.

            Unless the captain doesn't survive his injuries. A moot point in that case.

            How did it happen? How did the captain fall into the hold? 

            And where do we go from here?

_Decisions_

            If we lose control of this situation it will be because Buckland cracked first.

            Hornblower is still too exhausted, I believe, to fully understand any of what has happened. Kennedy, for all his soft-spoken qualities, is showing greater fortitude then I would have expected. It is Buckland who will make or break all of us.

            And I am not entirely sure that he realizes it. The simple fact that he left Hornblower on continuous watch shows his unwillingness to do anything contrary to the captain's orders.

            Unwillingness, or inability?

            Of course, Doctor Clive is no help. Although he has never outright refused to pronounce on the captain's condition he has likewise not indicated his thoughts on the matter. And without definitive word from the doctor Buckland will do nothing.

            Am I committing double mutiny? First the captain and now the first lieutenant?

            Kennedy and I seem to have reached some sort of understanding at least. I'm still not entirely sure if he trusts me, but at least he has accepted my (figuratively) extended hand. We took a watch together, allowing Hornblower a chance for some more sleep. I can honestly say that as much as I have come to respect Kennedy as a fellow officer I have also come to like him as a man.

            Hornblower is a completely different matter. Try as I might I cannot see my way clear with him.

            Part of that is my own fault, I am certain. Asking him straight out about the captain's fall was not the smartest thing I've ever done, but it was necessary. I *know* that he knows more than he is telling. Perhaps he is taking a greater risk than the rest of us in this matter, and is therefore less inclined to talk about it.

            Do I honestly believe he pushed the captain?

            Perhaps, perhaps not. Its next to impossible to tell by his actions and demeanor since the incident. I don't think I've ever met anyone with a tighter rein on his emotions than Hornblower. Inscrutable barely begins to describe him.

            Yet I can't help but respect him. He's an able officer, of that there can be no doubt. Appearances when I first arrived notwithstanding, he has the loyalty and even affection of most of the men. Of course if someone were to mention that to him I am sure he'd deny it with his whole heart. For all the accomplishments of his young career he seems to forever dwell on things he has done wrong.

            We have just met again in the captain's quarters, and again Doctor Clive refused to make any statement regarding Sawyer's fitness. Other than to say that "for the time being" Captain Sawyer is incapable of commanding the ship.

            I suppose unconsciousness *would* render him incapable.

            And Buckland will do nothing, NOTHING, without Clive's agreement.

            Two days. We have two days before we'll be at Santo Domingo. Two days until we will very likely see action. The only question remaining is will we be commanded by a mad captain or an incompetent first lieutenant.

_Resolve_

            Its done, and now we cannot turn back.

            Doctor Clive has finally declared Captain Sawyer unfit for command. Under less than ideal circumstances, to be sure, but with plenty of witnesses about. He may try, but it will be damned hard for him to go back on his words.

            I cannot believe what this has done to me. Every word I hear, every gesture I see, is now thought of in terms of how it might tell against us at our court martial. As if a court martial were already a forgone conclusion, and we four already condemned.

            And perhaps we are. We can justify our actions all we want, but they still boil down to one thing.

            Mutiny.

            What choice did we have? A ship in grave danger needs a strong hand, not an insane captain who jumps at the sight of his own shadow. Not a paranoid madman with all manner of horrid delusions.

            And that's not even mentioning the laudanum. Still, we cannot blame Doctor Clive for that. He was doing what he thought was best in that situation. How could he have known it would only make matters worse?

            Captain Sawyer had awakened after his fall in even worse condition than before. More paranoid, more upset, more convinced that we were plotting against him. That delusion landed Hornblower, Kennedy and myself in the brig for a spell. I'm still trying to figure out why.

            We were in the brig, and the ship sailed into the line of fire. Captain Sawyer insisted on attacking the fort, despite all sense and prudence urging against such a course.

            The consequences were, unfortunately, predictable.

            The Dons in the fort fired on us, and we could not fire back. Well, we did fire back, but it certainly didn't do us any good. We couldn't hit a bloody thing. And then the Renown ran aground.

            She ran aground under fire.

            We, all of us, are lucky to be alive. Especially after the Dons started firing heated shot.

            Till the day I die I don't think I shall ever forget the sound of that hot shot ripping into the brig, followed by the roar of the sea as it poured in. It was a moment of pure, paralyzing fear. For all three of us.

            Luckily it was **only** a moment. Styles and Matthews were able to free us. I only just found out that in the process Styles had shot Randall in the foot. I confess I was hard pressed to keep the smile off my face when I heard that. Its no less than Randall deserved.

            We were able to re-float the ship, but it was very close. With the leverage of the anchor we kedged the ship off of the sandbar, but not before we lost a considerable number of men.

            And, in a sense, our captain.

            I'm unsure as to how it came about, but when Kennedy and I emerged on deck Captain Sawyer had been disarmed by Sargent Whiting and was surrounded by three other marines. Hornblower and Doctor Clive were arguing about the captain.

            The doctor had finally declared the captain unfit for command. After days of hemming, hawing, veering away from the subject and otherwise prevaricating, he had finally taken the final step that could free us all. Clive claimed it was under duress, which only served to anger Hornblower.

            "You were being threatened with a pistol, for God's sake!" was Clive's vehement protest.

            "By whom?" I had asked, genuinely puzzled.

            "By the captain." Came Buckland's quiet but firm answer. The bareness of the statement trapped us all in an attitude of stunned silence. It was a telling moment, especially for Doctor Clive. He looked from each of us to the others, and lastly to Captain Sawyer.

            "Take him to his cabin." Clive ordered.

            "You'll swing for this. You all will." Were the captain's parting words.

            And perhaps we will, but not today.


End file.
